The Fight
by GeniaTheParadox
Summary: Sherlock and John have a monstrous fight, resulting in John storming out of the flat. But, after three days away, Sherlock starts to worry. Not my best summary, but... yeah.


For anyone who cares, I have finally – _finally – _got series two of Sherlock on DVD and caught up with the rest of the universe, so I thought some fanfiction with in order. To celebrate.

This one, my fourth ever bash at Johnlock (yes, I am counting), is a bit more serious than my other ones. It's got a proper plot and everything and the smut is more _love-making_ than filth. I must say though, it's nice be able to write in my own accent. After years of writing Glee fics and having to think all American, it's refreshing to switch my internal monologue back to British for a while. *doffs top hat, adjusts monocle, sips tea, pats bulldog, hums God Save The Queen, curtsies to Stephan Fry, and so on*

Anyway, reviews would be lovely, so feel free to chuck some at me.

And I am not nearly clever enough to have invented Sherlock Holmes so obviously he doesn't belong to me.

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**The Fight **

It wasn't that they didn't always argue. When you live with an insufferable, self-proclaimed sociopath who thinks nothing of storing severed human heads in the fridge arguing was to be expected, and certainly happened often. But this had been different. This had been a full-blown fight.

They had just arrived home after a disastrous case involving the abduction of a young girl. They hadn't been quick enough and she had been killed just moments before they found her. John was deeply upset that they couldn't save the unfortunate girl. Sherlock, on the other hand, was more annoyed that everyone thought the case had been a failure just because the girl had died. He had still deduced her whereabouts with a miniscule amount of data and the kidnapper had been arrested, so as far as he was concerned it hadn't been completely unsuccessful. John was furious at Sherlock's total lack of compassion for the poor girl and her grieving family. Sherlock was still adamant that, technically, he had solved this case. And that's when the fight broke out. They screamed at each other for ages, soon going completely off topic until they were yelling at each other about all sorts of things. John called Sherlock every name under the sun before finally grabbing his jacket and storming out of the flat, leaving without a backwards glance before he could punch Sherlock in the face.

That was three days ago and John still hadn't returned. On the first day, Sherlock had been far too pissed off to care that John had gone for the night. When Mrs. Hudson popped round and asked where John was Sherlock had answered with an indifferent grunt, busying himself with an experiment all day. He didn't care, he told himself. He didn't care if John never came back at all.

On the second day, Sherlock started to worry. The paranoid part of his brain began reeling out countless gruesomely vivid scenarios that no distraction could block out. John hadn't come home because something bad had happened, obviously. He'd been in some kind of terrible accident, of course, and was grievously injured, so horribly battered he was unrecognisable, moments away from death, and... no. It couldn't be, Sherlock reasoned with himself. If John was lying in a hospital bed on death's door someone would have told him by now. Best friend, flatmate and boyfriend surely counted as next-of-kin. No, John was fine, he just... wasn't home. Sherlock stayed awake all night, composing a mournful tune on his violin until the early hours, waiting for John to come back.

And now it was the third day and, although he hated to admit it even in his own internal monologue, Sherlock was scared. He had only had half a cup of tea and a slice of toast since the fight, but he just didn't see the point in eating. Not without John there to tell him off for not eating enough. John wasn't coming back, Sherlock was sure of it now. His cold, uncaring nature and his complete lack of empathy had driven away the only living human being on the planet that Sherlock was sure he genuinely loved with every fibre of his being. John was sweet and caring and brave and handsome; he would find someone new in no time, someone who really deserved him, someone _normal_. And, after seven months, three weeks and twelve days of love and friendship and being truly happy, Sherlock would be back to being alone, driven mad by his own sadness.

Sherlock spent the day in silence. He rooted around in John's wardrobe until he found a jumper that he knew John favoured and put it on, even though it was much too small for his lanky frame. He took the pillow from John's bed – it still faintly smelt like him – and curled up on John's armchair, staring into space in the quiet flat. The message tone on his phone went off, but Sherlock didn't bother to read it. He could see from where it was placed on the table that it was just from Lestrade. Of course, as if John would text him now. Sherlock hadn't texted him either in the past three days but that had mainly been due to his own stubbornness. Now it was more out of courtesy. The detective knew when he wasn't wanted.

At some point in the day, Sherlock wasn't sure when exactly, Mrs. Hudson stopped by to check up on him.

"John still not back yet?" she said as she tidied the mess in the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Never mind, dear," Mrs. Hudson said kindly. "I'm sure he'll be back soon. Not the first time you two have had a little domestic, is it? Nothing wrong with a bit of passion in a relationship, I think. He probably just needs some time apart to cool down."

John had been gone for three days, Sherlock thought bitterly to himself. One day would have been a sufficient amount of time to cool down from their fight. It was time to face facts; John wasn't coming back.

"Don't you worry, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, undeterred by his brooding silence. "Tell you what. I'll make you a nice cuppa and something to eat. That'll cheer you up, dear."

Sherlock left the cup of tea and rather delicious smelling bacon sandwich to get stone cold on the table next to his phone. What was the point of eating and speaking and moving if he didn't have John? It started to get dark around him as the day wore on, but Sherlock didn't get up to turn the lights on. He buried his nose in John's pillow, tears stinging his eyes. He didn't let himself cry, even though there was nobody around to see. In a final act of desperation, he reached for his phone and sent a text to John. He'd been fighting the urge for a while – Sherlock Holmes did not _beg_ – but he just couldn't take it anymore. Every man has his breaking point, even extraordinary men like Sherlock.

_Please come home. I miss you. I'm sorry –SH _

John felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He'd been staying over at Harry's for the past few days, clearing his head. Harry was currently down the pub, drinking her feelings, and probably wouldn't be pouring herself into bed until the early hours. John had found it strangely comforting being with his sister, for the bizarre fact that he didn't have to be nice to her. When he first arrived on her doorstep he was still angry at the world and in no mood for niceties, but once he'd calmed down he still found their animosity soothing. Their bickering and causal insults sort of reminded him of being home, being with Sherlock. The love was there, underneath it all, it just didn't need to be said.

John wanted to go home, he really did. But that fight... surely it was a deal-breaker. They both said a lot of harsh things, John especially, and he just didn't know if there was any way of returning to what they'd had after that. He'd actually gone out and bought new clothes just so he wouldn't have to go back to the flat. Sherlock would still be angry, John was sure of it. Sherlock was definitely one for holding a grudge. He'd probably already taken a blowtorch to all of John's jumpers by now.

But still, during the first day apart John had checked his phone constantly, willing Sherlock to text him even though he would have been surprised as hell if it actually happened. Sherlock would never be the first to break the pointed silence. By the second day John was convinced that this was the end for them, that after over six months as an actual couple (as opposed to the couple everyone assumed they were when they'd just been just friends), it had all gone down the drain. And now, on the third day, John was slumped on Harry's sofa, staring at the telly but not really seeing it, and feeling more alone than ever before. He'd just allowed himself a little cry to get it out of his system when he felt his phone vibrate and fished it out of his trouser pocket. He nearly dropped it when he saw who the text was from.

John couldn't believe what he was reading. It was the sort of thing Sherlock would never be able to say out loud. He'd said _please_, he'd apologised, and above all he'd said that he missed John. Fresh tears were welling in the doctor's eyes. He knew what it must have taken for Sherlock to say that, even in a text, because Sherlock really wasn't very good with feelings. It was most likely because, before John came along, in Sherlock's strange and brilliant mind _feelings_ were for other people, for lesser mortals. In all the time that they'd been together Sherlock had only said those three special words once. It was in the middle of the night and John was half asleep in bed with Sherlock beside him, when the detective finally said it. It was barely a whisper, so quiet that it easily could have been missed, drowned out by the ongoing sounds of late night London traffic outside. But John had heard it, and murmured back "I love you too, Sherlock," as confirmation before he'd fallen asleep.

But this simple little text, even though it was so few words, was possibly the most meaningful, sentimental, _human_ thing that Sherlock had ever said to John, even if it wasn't out loud. John brushed the tears out of his eyes and got up, putting his shoes on and grabbing his jacket, patting himself down to make sure he still had his keys and wallet. He left a short note for Harry, thanking her for letting him stay. Before he left, he quickly texted back with shaking hands.

_I'm coming back –JW _

Sherlock read the text a lot more times than was necessary considering it was only three words. He hadn't expected John to reply and he certainly hadn't expected John to say he was coming back. No, it couldn't be that simple. John couldn't leave for three days and then be brought back by one needy text.

Sherlock stood up from John's armchair and paced the room, holding John's pillow to his chest with one hand and his phone with the other. John couldn't be coming home because he wanted to, Sherlock thought to himself. John had not accepted his apology or said that he missed Sherlock too. He just said he was coming back. John was always one for sentiment, always calling Sherlock ridiculous little pet names that the detective pretended to hate, even in texts. But this text didn't appear to have any sentiment to it at all. It was cold and to the point. So John couldn't be coming back because he wanted to. He had to be coming back just to collect his possessions so he could leave properly.

Sherlock sat back down on John's armchair with his feet on the seat, hugging his knees with John's pillow squashed between his thighs and his chest. Before he had come to that conclusion, Sherlock had contemplated getting dressed in his own clothes and sitting in his own chair so that he didn't seem quite so tragic. But what was the point? John wasn't coming back to stay. John hadn't missed him. His life was probably much easier without Sherlock in it. If only Sherlock could say the same about himself.

An hour and a half after the text, Sherlock heard the front door open downstairs. A cab journey from Harry Watson's house to 221B Baker Street would take approximately an hour and twenty-six minutes, traffic permitting, so John must have been staying with his sister. Unless one of his ex-girlfriends lived the same distance away... but Sherlock didn't want to think about that. He heard John walk up the stairs quite quickly. He was in a hurry, probably holding the cab so he could take all his possessions in one go. Only about a quarter of the things in the flat belonged to John, so removing them wouldn't be difficult. Sherlock didn't have the heart to turn around once he heard John enter the flat.

John was slightly out of breath once he got into 221B, having nearly run up the stairs. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find. Perhaps Sherlock sitting in his leather armchair with his hands a steeple under his chin, looking as he always did, as if nothing had happened. Maybe Sherlock hadn't meant what he'd said in the text at all, but was just conducting an experiment to see if those sentimental words would be enough to bring John back. But what John wasn't expecting at all was what met him once he entered the flat and switched the lights on.

Sherlock was sitting on John's armchair, curled up with his feet on the seat like he did when he was agitated. He was hugging what looked like the pillow from John's bed, and... no, he couldn't be. John slowly stepped closer to Sherlock, and would've laughed if Sherlock hadn't looked quite so depressed.

"Is that one of my jumpers you're wearing?"

Sherlock stayed silent, staring determinedly at the floor. He didn't understand what John was doing. He had only come back for his things, so why didn't he just pack up and leave so Sherlock could get back to wallowing in self-pity in peace? Why was John dragging out this painful experience by talking to him?

John moved some things off the table, including a cold cup of tea and an untouched sandwich on one of Mrs. Hudson's nice patterned plates, and sat down directly in front of the sulking detective. He didn't understand why Sherlock was being so distant after pleading with John to come back. But he supposed that Sherlock was probably just being... _Sherlock._

"I can only assume from the fact that you're sitting in my chair, wearing one of my favourite jumpers and clinging to my pillow that you really did miss me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but still didn't look at John. "Not exactly the most complex of deductions, but a correct assumption nonetheless."

John chuckled quietly, the first time he'd laughed in three days. Sherlock had missed the sound of John's voice, all his different laughs – that little chuckle was usually caused when Sherlock said something endearingly condescending to him, or was being particularly childish. But Sherlock still refused to look at him. If he looked at John now he would never be able to delete it from his memory and it would only make this hurt more.

"Sherlock," John said softly. "I missed you too. That's why I came back. I wanted to come back the moment I left."

"Then why didn't you?" Sherlock said bitterly, glaring at the floor.

John sighed and frowned, wishing that Sherlock would look at him. "I was still really pissed off at you. And then... then I thought that maybe you wouldn't want me back. I thought you'd still be angry, still be holding a grudge after the fight. I thought it was over... right until you texted me. I'm pretty sure that's the first time you've apologised to someone without me telling you to first. I forgive you, Sherlock. And I'm sorry too. Sorry for everything I said, sorry for leaving for so long."

Sherlock finally gave in and looked at John. The bags under his eyes were more prominent, so he hadn't been sleeping very well. His shirt was new, something he must have bought to avoid coming home for his clothes, but his jeans were the ones he'd left in. His expression was imploring, honest, sincere and, above all, full of love. John really had come home.

John smiled and was suddenly on his feet. "Get up."

"What – why?"

"Just put down my pillow and get up, for goodness sake."

Sherlock stood up slowly, leaving the pillow on the seat. John's smile only got wider – Sherlock really did look ridiculous in that jumper, it was far too small. Without warning John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hugging him tightly and burying his face in the taller man's chest. As always with an unplanned hug that he hadn't initiated himself, Sherlock took a second to respond, but eventually his long arms circled John, holding him close as he returned the embrace. Sherlock let his head fall against John's shoulder, deeply breathing in the smell he had missed so much. The tears that he had spent the entire day forcing back were threatening to spill over.

"Oh God, I missed you," said John, his voice muffled against Sherlock's body, which sort of hid the fact that he was on the verge of tears himself. "I'm so sorry for leaving you, Sherlock. I love you so much."

Sherlock didn't trust his voice at that moment. His throat was constricted with emotions, tears finally pouring down his face. He let his actions speak the words he couldn't say out loud. After giving John one more squeeze, Sherlock pulled back, taking John's face in his hands. He looked into those honest blue eyes for a lingering moment, before leaning down and catching John's lips in a kiss that spoke volumes. John knew immediately what Sherlock was trying to say with this kiss, and returned it with equal amounts of love and passion. When they eventually separated both men had tear tracks down their cheeks.

"Come on," said John, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes before taking Sherlock's hand. "Let me take care of you, love."

Sherlock willingly let John lead him to the bathroom. John turned on the shower, letting the water run for a while until it was hot enough, and took off his clothes, gesturing to Sherlock to do the same. They stepped under the water and John commenced to gently bathe Sherlock, lathering up his long limbs and scrubbing his back. He made Sherlock crouch down slightly so he could wash all the tangles out of the detective's hair, massaging his scalp until Sherlock felt more relaxed than he had all week. When John was done Sherlock returned the favour, taking his time to wash the doctor's short blonde hair and being careful around the scar on John's shoulder.

Once out of the shower they towelled themselves down and went into Sherlock's room. John lay down on the bed and brought Sherlock with him, the two men kissing slowly and sensually. They touched each other, felt each other, familiarising themselves with the other's body, the skin they had missed so much. Sherlock rolled them over so that John was on top of him, wrapping his long legs around the doctor's hips as their arousals rutted together. This was Sherlock's favourite way to be when they made love. There was something endlessly satisfying in having John's weight on top of him, so close, so all-encompassing, like John was the only thing in the world.

John kissed Sherlock deeply, before letting his lips trail all over his lover's face – his jaw, his nose, his high cheekbones, his eyelids, his forehead – mapping it out with lots of little kisses. John kissed his way down Sherlock's slender neck, sucking and nibbling on the pulse point until he left a possessive little mark. All the while Sherlock nuzzled John's injured shoulder, lightly pressing his lips against the scared skin as his baritone moans rumbled deep in his chest.

Though their movements were slow and lingering, there was still a desperate sense of urgency brought on by the fact that they had been apart for so long. In no time John was gently working Sherlock open with two lubed up fingers, his lover writhing and keening with pleasure underneath him. They were both overwhelmed once John was buried deep inside Sherlock, the two men holding each other and savouring the feeling of being so utterly close before they finally started to move.

They worked up a steady rhythm between, Sherlock rolling his hips to meet John thrusts until they were both breathless with pleasure. Names were whispered against lips, skin slipping against sweaty skin as they lost themselves in each other. Both wanted this to last as long as possible, neither wanted it to end, but all too soon their movements increased in speed as their neared their climaxes. The bed creaked under them, the headboard knocking against the wall, the air full of the sounds of their panting and moaning and skin slapping against skin. Sherlock clawed at John's back, John buried his face in Sherlock's neck, both men so close to the edge they could barely stand it. They were the only two people in the universe, rapid heartbeats falling in time, lost in this, in _everything_. Finally the pressure snapped and they cried out just seconds apart, a wave of pleasure crashing over both of them, intertwined in ecstasy until they were both completely spent. Three days had been far too long to be apart.

They cleaned themselves up and lay together under the duvet, holding each other and kissing lazily. The fight was forgotten and the flat was a home once more now that Sherlock had his doctor back. As John started to fall asleep, Sherlock watched him. He was exhausted too but couldn't bear to look away in case all of this was just a dream, in case John disappeared the moment he closed his eyes. He rested his pale, spidery hand on John's tanned, slightly hairy chest, feeling the steady heartbeat under his fingertips. He lived for this heartbeat, for the man this strong heart was keeping alive. Sherlock really was lost without his blogger. As John's breathing evened out, Sherlock whispered a soft, heartfelt "I love you." The second one he had ever said out loud.

John smiled in his half-conscious state, his arm tightening around Sherlock's slim waist, and mumbled back a quiet "I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled and rested his head on John's chest. Eventually, with that soothing heartbeat right under his ear, the detective fell into a peaceful sleep in his doctor's arms.

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Hope you enjoyed, Humble Readers.

Reviews would be much appreciated. Not that I'm desperate for praise or anything...

xxx


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